The Ivy League
by Scribble2Much
Summary: Season 8: He always knew his brother belonged with the best of the best. A little brotherly bonding from "the Batcave". One shot, Tag to 8:13, "Everybody Hates Hitler". Spoilers up to 8:13.


**The Ivy League**

**Summary:** Season 8 - He always knew his brother belonged with the best of the best. A little brotherly bonding from "the Batcave". One shot, Tag to 8:13, "Everybody Hates Hitler". Spoilers up to 8:13.

**A/N: **Season 8 is inspiring me. I feel like we finally got our brothers back.

* * *

Dean Winchester took a moment to enjoy the thrill of watching his little brother in his element.

Sam was seated at their huge dining table in the Bunker, with layers of books and papers around him. Busy scribbling notes in one of the large journals they had found in the expansive library, it appeared Sam hadn't even noticed his brother's approach. Dean didn't mind; it gave him a chance to observe all Sam's movements.

He noticed that his little brother opted to take notes longhand instead of typing on his laptop. Not even Sam's legendary love of technology could outweigh his respect for the traditions of their new found legacy.

They were Men of Letters.

Moreover, as their grandfather had so eloquently put it; they were "preceptors, beholders, chroniclers of all that man does not understand."

In Dean's book, that put them way above the often undignified, unending grind of their current occupation where the only job description was to aim to kill hard and pray to die fast. Now, the family business had gotten an extreme makeover beyond their wildest dreams.

For Dean, the sweetest thing was that no one seemed to be revelling in that million dollar upgrade more than Sam. His little brother had taken to their newly discovered legacy like a terminal patient given a new lease on life. So much so that among the things Dean was enjoying most about being in the Bunker, was all the signs of contentment now emanating from his sibling.

And it was at moments like this, when Sam was silently radiating satisfaction, that Dean had to stop and just drink it in. Watching his brother now, Dean smiled at how Sam bit his bottom lip slightly as he moved the pen over the page. He noted the way Sam feathered his fingers through his too-long hair when he paused to contemplate before writing again. Most importantly, he spotted the small smile on Sam's face, no doubt stemming from his sense of accomplishment at being able to add to the storehouse of knowledge that honourable men had risked and even lost their lives to pass on.

The joy and excitement Dean could sense in Sam's actions took him way back to their childhood when Sam first began his love affair with academia. Dean could recall countless occasions where Sam had asked for a longer session at the library so he could finish a book, a later time for lights-out so he could complete an assignment; or, even more time at a school so he could take an important test or submit a project.

He could imagine now what his brother must have been like at Stanford. Bursting with curiosity, thrilled with the opportunity to learn and discover and bouncing off the geek scale at the sight of all the books. And while hunting certainly had its academic side, deep in his heart, Dean knew that research never came close to giving Sam the intellectual challenge he'd always craved.

However, now Sam had the best of both worlds. He'd found the aspect of the family business that recognized and rewarded the muscle he liked to exercise the most; his brain.

At last, he could blend his love of knowledge with his skill at the hunt. Now, he didn't have to leave one behind for other. He didn't have to choose between his family and his personal ambitions or his calling and his talents. The most important aspects of Sam's life were fitting together with a harmony that most people could only dream of. And in Dean's mind there was no one more deserving of that self-actualisation.

"Dean," Sam said without even looking up at his brother. "If you keep staring at me, I might just give you something to look at."

Laughing easily, Dean stepped forward offering a tumbler of whiskey to his brother.

"Thanks," Sam took the glass and sipped while Dean took a seat at the table beside him.

Dean's smile only got wider as he tasted his scotch. Now, it was Sam's turn to savour the joy on his big brother's face. Moving into the Bunker had flicked a reset switch on their relationship. Having a home that gave them space to get lost in individual pursuits seemed to be bringing them closer together.

But for Sam the best thing was seeing his brother moving throughout "the Batcave" and amusing himself with all the trappings of their surroundings. He got a big thrill from watching Dean fixing a meal, arranging his room and turning the historic facility into a home they could both share.

With every mischievous move or relaxed gesture Sam sensed that Dean was finally finding a sense of permanency and a reason to stick around for the long haul.

For far too long they had lived with the clock ticking down, struggling to avert catastrophe while battling unmerciful enemies. The constant state of duress had taken a heavy toll on them as individuals but the worst damage had been done to their bond as brothers. Distrust, resentment and malice had caused them both to devalue what had always been considered sacred.

And worse, Leviathans, apocalypses and everything in between had robbed Dean of his love for hunting. More than anything Sam had hated seeing the despair laced with desperation that had clouded Dean's eyes as they had lurched from one monumental assignment to the next.

Powerless, Sam had watched his brother's calling become his burden as Dean moved from having a sense of purpose to being overwhelmed with resignation. Witnessing the tragedy had made Sam long for the days when it had just been the two of them fighting evil one hunt at a time.

Then, their grandfather had burst through their motel room closet and everything had changed.

They were Men of Letters.

They were descendants of an exclusive group of scholars who discovered the secrets of the supernatural and transferred that knowledge from generation to generation. But the best part was the inextricable link between their past and their present.

Their grandfather had said, "We share our findings with a few trusted hunters – the very elite. They do the rest." And with those words he had given them a bridge between both worlds.

Sam had met and worked with numerous hunters in his time, and his brother was the best, hands down. Dean was the total package; he had their father's grit, Bobby's smarts and Pastor Jim's righteous indignation. On top of that, he had an unmatched ability to empathize, although he reserved that mostly for kids.

Sam often wondered about the incredible things Dean would have been able to accomplish if he'd been able to devote his talents and skills to other endeavours. But the speculation could end now because they were seeing the culmination of all they had been taught and all they had experienced. And finally, Dean seemed to be developing an appreciation for himself and accepting that he was meant to enjoy his life.

"So," Sam addressed his brother across the table. "Are you gonna tell me why you were watching me from the shadows?"

Sam savoured the tingle of contentment that buzzed through him as he watched Dean put his legs up on the dining table and cross them. He knew the pleasing sensation had nothing to do with the glass of scotch he was slowly making his way through.

"I was just thinking," Dean said coyly.

"About what?"

"The Ivy League."

"The Ivy League?" Sam raised a curious eyebrow.

"Yeah," Dean said casually as if it was perfectly normal for him to stand around contemplating elite institutions of higher learning. "Remember when I thought Stanford was in the Ivy League?"

Now Sam had to laugh. "Yes."

"And, in your snotty little brother way, you disabused me of that notion."

"I merely told you the facts," Sam defended.

"Well, at the time, I thought if Stanford wasn't in the Ivy League, then it should be; because my little brother belongs with the best of the best."

Sam smiled shyly as he met Dean's eyes. "If I'm the best at anything it's because I was always trying to keep up with my big brother."

The wondrous light in Dean's eyes was thanks enough for Sam.

"So," Dean continued, taking another drink of his whiskey. "Like I said, I was thinking about the Ivy League."

"And?" Sam prompted. "Don't tell me, the mere thought of Harvard put that mile-wide grin on your face."

Now Dean was laughing; and the sound was music to Sam's ears.

"Actually," Dean grinned. "I was thinking that the Men of Letters are really like the Ivy League of hunting."

Sam ran his fingers through his hair again as he mulled over his big brother's statement.

"You know, I think I'd have to agree with you," he admitted. "They're both exclusive institutions with longstanding traditions, comprised of elite groups of brilliant and privileged scholars."

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother's verbosity. "In other words Sammy, the best of the best."

"Yeah," Sam said with just a tinge of wonder. "I'd say your comparison is spot on."

"Well then," Dean raised his glass to his brother. "Congratulations Sammy, you made it to the Ivy League."

With a loving smile that reflected his undying little brother awe, Sam accepted the kudos then toasted Dean in turn. "So did you."

**THE END**


End file.
